She pinched her lips together. “Regardless,” she said, deciding not to comment upon his sarcasm, “I very much appreciated not having to, er…” She blushed. Oh, God, she hated when she blushed.

“Knee him in the ballocks?” Michael finished helpfully, one comer of his mouth curving into a mocking smile.

“Indeed,” she ground out, quite convinced that her cheeks had gone from pink straight to crimson, skipping all shades of rose, fuchsia, and red along the way.

“You’re quite welcome,” he said abruptly, giving her a nod that was meant to indicate the end of the conversation. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

He moved as if heading for his bedroom door, but Francesca wasn’t quite ready (and she was certain that the devil himself only knew why) to end the conversation. “Wait!” she called out, gulping when she realized that now she was going to have to say something.

He turned around, slowly and with a strange sense of deliberation. “Yes?”

“I… I just…”

He waited while she floundered, then finally said, “Can it wait until morning?”

“No! Wait!” And this time she reached out and grabbed his arm.

He froze.

“Why are you so angry with me?” she whispered.

He just shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe her question. But he did not take his eyes off of her hand on his arm. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Why are you so angry with me?” she repeated, and she realized that she hadn’t even realized she’d felt this way until the words had left her lips. But something wasn’t right between them, and she had to know why.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered. “I’m not angry with you. I’m merely tired, and I want to go to bed.”

“You are. I’m sure you are.” Her voice was rising with conviction. Now that she’d said it, she knew it was true. He tried to hide it, and he’d become quite accomplished at apologizing when it slipped to the fore, but there was anger inside of him, and it was directed at her.

Michael placed his hand over hers. Francesca gasped at the heat of the contact, but then all he did was lift her hand off of his arm and allow it to drop. “I’m going to bed,” he announced.

And then he turned his back on her. Walked away.

“No! You can’t go!” She dashed after him, unthinking, unheedful…

Right into his bedroom.

If he hadn’t been angry before, he was now. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“You can’t just dismiss me,” she protested.

He stared at her. Hard. “You are in my bedchamber,” he said in a low voice. “I suggest you leave.”

“Not until you explain to me what is going on.”

Michael held himself perfectly still. His every muscle had frozen into a hard, stiff line, and it was a blessing, really, because if he’d allowed himself to move-if he’d felt even capable of moving-he would have lunged at her. And what he would do when he caught her was anyone’s guess.

He’d been pushed to the edge. First by her brother, and then by Sir Geoffrey, and now by Francesca herself, standing in front of him without a bloody clue.

His world had been overturned by a single suggestion.

Why don’t you just marry her?

It dangled before him like a ripe apple, a wicked possibility that shouldn’t be his to take.

John, his conscience pounded. John. Remember John.

“Francesca,” he said, his voice hard and controlled, “it is well past midnight, and you are in the bedchamber of a man to whom you are not married. I suggest you leave.”

But she didn’t. Damn her, she didn’t even move. She just stood there, three feet past the still-open doorway, staring at him as if she’d never seen him before.

He tried not to notice that her hair was loose. He tried not to see that she was wearing her nightclothes. They were demure, yes, but still meant to be removed, and his gaze kept dipping to the silken hem, which brushed the top of her foot, allowing him a tantalizing peek at her toes.

Good God, he was staring at her toes. Her toes. What had his life come to?

“Why are you angry with me?” she asked again.

“I’m not,” he snapped. “I just want you to get the h-” He caught himself at the last moment. “To get out of my room.”

“Is it because I wish to remarry?” she asked, her voice choked with emotion. “Is that it?”

He didn’t know how to answer, so he just glared at her.

“You think I’m betraying John,” she said accusingly. “You think I should spend my days mourning your cousin.”

Michael closed his eyes. “No, Francesca,” he said wearily, “I would never-”

But she wasn’t listening. “Do you think I don’t mourn him?” she demanded. “Do you think I don’t think about him each and every day? Do you think it feels good to know that when I marry, I’ll be making a mockery of the sacrament?”

He looked at her. She was breathing hard, caught up in her anger and maybe her grief as well.

“What I had with John,” she said, her entire body shaking now, “I’m not going to find with any of the men send-ing me flowers. And it feels like a desecration-a selfish desecration that I’m even considering remarrying. If I didn’t want a baby so… so damned much…”

She broke off, maybe from overemotion, maybe just at the shock of having actually cursed aloud. She just stood there, blinking, her lips parted and quivering, looking as if she might break at the merest touch.